


Stranger Things (the remixed, longer version)

by LunaDeSangre



Series: Infinite Possibilities [7]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:36:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9547451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: Two of Oz's biggest mysteries.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustandroses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustandroses/gifts).



> Prompt from Oz Magi 2016 (snatched for the Party in the Dress Factory):  
> Wish #14, Request 2: Schillinger/Someone besides Beecher who arrived in the first episode of Season One – “Gonna have to get you a tattoo.”
> 
> My only excuse for this not only existing at all, but turning out so long when it shouldn't have exceeded 800 words per Dress Factory Party rules, is that I've wanted to write Schillinger going after pre-cancer Ryan and ending up as ~~chicken~~ nuggets for _years_ , but never figured out how exactly until I took a second look at that prompt (while I had a fever, which kind of explains the writing style).
> 
> Mack and Robson nuggets are kind of obligatory bonuses, because we all know Schillinger likes a cheering audience he can share with, 'cause where's the fun in secretly raping someone on your own when you're a sadistic nazi fuck, right? In the short, no-rules-breaking, slightly-less-traumatizing version I posted for the Dress Factory Party (uploaded here as well for archiving's sake), it was Metzger instead of Mack, 'cause I could totally see him joining in when he delivers whichever unlucky fuck the nazis have their eyes on or bring said nazis where they want to go, and I definitely think Ryan's capable of making a hack disappear too. Since then I realized Metzger was either not there, or assigned to Ad Seg for the whole of season one, and would have no business ferrying inmates anywhere else in the prison. Oops. I finally remembered Mark Mack existed though, so there we go.
> 
> Diverging point for this universe: Beecher is safe, far away from Oz—he had one drink less that night and slammed on the breaks just in time. It shook him though, so he's getting help, with his wife's tearful support—which means Schillinger has to find himself _another_ reasonably good-looking white fish to prag...and y'know, Em City's sole Irish is really kind of the prettiest.

One of the things that would remain one of the biggest mysteries of Oz, years after the fact, will be the disappearance of inmates Vern Schillinger, Mark Mack and James Robson. None of the staff will ever have even a clue, but some of the guys who'd been there then, when asked, will always get a little smirkish smile on their faces as they made some vague, random allusion to chicken and nuggets and the importance of not overcooking white meat enough to make it all brown and crispy. No new fish will ever get it, and it'll just make them laugh.

Life, some wise man's said once, is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. Except the devious mind of some devious guy somewhere, right, 'cause how would it get stranger otherwise?

 _Gonna have to get you a tattoo_ , Schillinger'd told him when they'd been locked in for the night, on Ryan's first night in that pod. And because Ryan had seen this coming, seen the long look as he'd changed on his first day in Em City, he'd said _Oh no, I've already got one, thanks._ And he'd stood up, removed his shirt and deliberately shown Schillinger his back, deliberately made him stare. He'd looked back over his shoulder with his best innocent look and Schillinger had moved from the bed to just behind him, one hand grasping his neck, the other possessively going down his spine to roughly cup his ass inside his jeans, rub two fingers against Ryan's asshole, and failing to push easily inside, had asked _That a tight virgin ass, O'Reily?_ And Ryan had clenched his fists and choked _Yessir_ , tamping down on everything that made him want to rip the guy's throat off, bare-handed or with his teeth, and forced himself to add _But I'd rather it wasn't._ Schillinger had laughed, disgusting and smug and delighted, and tried to push one finger in, and Ryan had slipped from the grip on his neck and purposely lost his balance towards the glass, hitting it with a nice loud thunk, knowing it'll bring the hacks down on them.

 _I'm sorry, sir_ , he'd said once they'd gone with a warning, wide-eyed and sincere, before Schillinger could even open his mouth. _But I work in the kitchen, and there's a room off the right side, where we keep the meat freezers, it's always empty and maybe you could meet me there tomorrow after lunch? We'd have more privacy to do whatever you want, sir_ , and Schillinger had stared at him, but Ryan had dropped his gaze and bitten his lower lip, shuffled a bit and looked back up, furtively, from behind his eyelashes, and Schillinger had smiled all disgusting and smug and satisfied, and said _Be all nice and cleanly shaved for me, prag._

He'd gone back to his bed, thinking he was the fucking king, and Ryan had gone to his and waited for morning, when he'd suffered through another groping and made a beeline for the showers as soon as Schillinger had gone to breakfast, offering Keane to the Latinos in exchange for a guy fast with a shank and with a really strong stomach. He hadn't been too impressed at first they'd given him the youngest, smallest one with the tortured broody face who kept primping in front of a mirror, but Alvarez had been there, hiding behind the door with a stolen scalpel, that very afternoon as Ryan waited for Schillinger in the room he'd indicated, knees to his chest and arms around them on the table, chin on top, deliberately vulnerable, all nice and cleanly shaved and wearing his most earnest expression and absolutely nothing else. _You're loco_ , Alvarez had said right before, pulling on the kitchen uniform Ryan had found for him as Ryan arranged their discarded clothes in a carefully messy pile covering his own uniform and Alvarez's shoes in the furthest corner and told him where to hide, but he'd done as he was told because Ryan'd been loco, but he'd been interesting, too.

Schillinger had come through the door with two cronies, and they'd barely had the time to gleefully jeer smugly at him, the perfect eager little virgin distraction, that Alvarez had slammed the door behind them, slit one guy's throat, slashed the second's, dropped to avoid Schillinger's punch and stabbed him in the stomach, and then again, and again, before he'd finally cut his throat with cold eyes, because Schillinger had managed to get out _Gonna rip you apart with my dick too, you fucking spic_ , before he'd first been stabbed.

Alvarez'd been covered in blood as Schillinger collapsed, and he'd blankly said _That's why you made me wear that, huh,_ as Ryan finally managed to unclench his toes and his fingers and his arms, and unfold from the table to put on his uniform, leaving their clothes in the corner. He'd gotten a meat cleaver from a drawer, handed it to Alvarez, gotten another one for himself, and they'd gone to work in silence, no explanations or instructions needed, pulling clothes off, hacking meat, dislocating bones, cutting off muscles, tendons and veins, pulling off skin, twisting off heads. Alvarez had sliced off any tattoos he could find with his scalpel, and Ryan had fed them, the bones, heads, hands and feet in the waste crushing machine inedible things went into to take less space in the garbage, several times over until they were nothing but an unrecognizable goopy puree full of little bone shards, that could just as well have been chicken or pig.

He'd taken all the rest, all the bloody fleshy bits, shoved them in the nugget machine, and unprompted Alvarez had grabbed the lever and started making nazi nuggets with an insane little laugh, so Ryan had spilled bleach everywhere and started methodically scrubbing the whole place clean. He'd cleaned Alvarez's scalpel too, coaxing it from the guy's fingers with a _Hey, it's alright_ that Alvarez had answered _Anything you didn't think of?_ to, weak half-grin and knotting eyebrows, and Ryan had half-smiled back and told him to strip and wash at the sink, even his hair and his feet, and to not forget to scrub under his nails too, and Alvarez had given him that slightly demented laugh again, and gone to do just that.

Ryan had stripped again too, and collected their bloodied uniforms and all the nazi's things to burn to a crisp in a pot with some of the moonshine he'd seen the homeboys keep there as an accelerant, just a little from each fake white vinegar bottle, carefully topping them off again with water when he was done and shaking them to mix it. He'd ignored Alvarez, back in his own clothes and shoes, sitting swinging his legs and twirling his scalpel on a table, watching him in fascination, and still naked he'd scattered in the garbage the ashes and charred bits of metal and melted plastic left from the fire, directly from the pot, and used a long spoon to mingle them in so they were indistinguishable from the stuff that had already been there. Then he'd scrubbed the pot and spoon clean, scrubbed himself clean, scrubbed the sink clean, and turned to get his clothes only to find Alvarez had gotten them for him.

He'd silently handed them out one at the time, in the right order for Ryan to get dressed from the bottoms up, boxers, jeans, socks, shoes, shirt, and leant against the shelf near the sink while Ryan planted one feet after another on it to tie his shoelaces. _There's nothing you haven't thought of_ , Alvarez decided, still watching him, and Ryan inspected him quickly, dark curious eyes and fascinated grin, no cuts, no bruises and no blood, and told him, friendly even advice and no orders, _Go back to the infirmary, wipe your fingerprints off that scalpel and put it back, take a shower when you go back to Em City, a real good one, and sit in the quad where all the hacks can see you._

 _What you're gonna do_ , Alvarez'd asked, taking it all like a good little soldier, willing to learn.

 _Wipe our fingerprints off anything else here_ , he'd answered, amused and intrigued by Alvarez's interest, _Start making dinner._

Alvarez had grinned, quicksilver fast and just as bright, handsome face then not yet marred by that self-inflicted scar, _Mind if I tell my friends to go vegetarian tonight?_

And Ryan had answered, grinning back and nearly laughing, _Well, it's always good to eat more green. Though I think your friend Groves might disagree with me on that._

 _Loco_ , Alvarez had called him then too, and Ryan had grinned at him, too wide and too sharp and too full of teeth, purposely too much on the wrong side of madness, and Alvarez had just laughed.

It all has to start in some mind somewhere, right?

That would be the other biggest mystery, years down the road, the Irish sociopath and the schizophrenic Latino, how and when and where and _how?_ But no one would ever have answers for that one either.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can imagine, Groves was nothing short of absolutely delighted with his meal. Miguel got an extra peach to go with his dinner without having asked (Ryan likes peaches, so it's a tremendous gift indeed, though it'll take Miguel a couple of years to realize, because he'd have preferred a lollipop), and a huge pile of veggies (peas, per Ryan's dark sense of humor, which made him dump them generously on everyone's trays with a rather-demented-looking grin, because he couldn't share why it was funny with anybody, since thankfully no one had heard Schillinger call him sweetpea that very morning).
> 
> Oh, and somehow the Oz-prisoner-rumor-mill neglected to go anywhere near the aryans. Whoops?


End file.
